Chương Chương 220 · OCCUPYING ONE’S SELF WITH OBSCURE DEPTHS

Hardly was M. Leblanc seated, when he turned his eyes towards the

pallets, which were empty.

“How is the poor little wounded girl?” he inquired.

“Bad,” replied Jondrette with a heart-broken and grateful smile, “very

bad, my worthy sir. Her elder sister has taken her to the Bourbe to

have her hurt dressed. You will see them presently; they will be back

immediately.”

“Madame Fabantou seems to me to be better,” went on M. Leblanc, casting

his eyes on the eccentric costume of the Jondrette woman, as she stood

between him and the door, as though already guarding the exit, and

gazed at him in an attitude of menace and almost of combat.

“She is dying,” said Jondrette. “But what do you expect, sir! She has

so much courage, that woman has! She’s not a woman, she’s an ox.”

The Jondrette, touched by his compliment, deprecated it with the

affected airs of a flattered monster.

“You are always too good to me, Monsieur Jondrette!”

“Jondrette!” said M. Leblanc, “I thought your name was Fabantou?”

“Fabantou, alias Jondrette!” replied the husband hurriedly. “An

artistic sobriquet!”

And launching at his wife a shrug of the shoulders which M. Leblanc did

not catch, he continued with an emphatic and caressing inflection of

voice:—

“Ah! we have had a happy life together, this poor darling and I! What

would there be left for us if we had not that? We are so wretched, my

respectable sir! We have arms, but there is no work! We have the will,

no work! I don’t know how the government arranges that, but, on my word

of honor, sir, I am not Jacobin, sir, I am not a bousingot.30 I don’t

wish them any evil, but if I were the ministers, on my most sacred

word, things would be different. Here, for instance, I wanted to have

my girls taught the trade of paper-box makers. You will say to me:

‘What! a trade?’ Yes! A trade! A simple trade! A bread-winner! What a

fall, my benefactor! What a degradation, when one has been what we have

been! Alas! There is nothing left to us of our days of prosperity! One

thing only, a picture, of which I think a great deal, but which I am

willing to part with, for I must live! Item, one must live!”

While Jondrette thus talked, with an apparent incoherence which

detracted nothing from the thoughtful and sagacious expression of his

physiognomy, Marius raised his eyes, and perceived at the other end of

the room a person whom he had not seen before. A man had just entered,

so softly that the door had not been heard to turn on its hinges. This

man wore a violet knitted vest, which was old, worn, spotted, cut and

gaping at every fold, wide trousers of cotton velvet, wooden shoes on

his feet, no shirt, had his neck bare, his bare arms tattooed, and his

face smeared with black. He had seated himself in silence on the

nearest bed, and, as he was behind Jondrette, he could only be

indistinctly seen.

That sort of magnetic instinct which turns aside the gaze, caused M.

Leblanc to turn round almost at the same moment as Marius. He could not

refrain from a gesture of surprise which did not escape Jondrette.

“Ah! I see!” exclaimed Jondrette, buttoning up his coat with an air of

complaisance, “you are looking at your overcoat? It fits me! My faith,

but it fits me!”

“Who is that man?” said M. Leblanc.

“Him?” ejaculated Jondrette, “he’s a neighbor of mine. Don’t pay any

attention to him.”

The neighbor was a singular-looking individual. However, manufactories

of chemical products abound in the Faubourg Saint-Marceau. Many of the

workmen might have black faces. Besides this, M. Leblanc’s whole person

was expressive of candid and intrepid confidence.

He went on:—

“Excuse me; what were you saying, M. Fabantou?”

“I was telling you, sir, and dear protector,” replied Jondrette placing

his elbows on the table and contemplating M. Leblanc with steady and

tender eyes, not unlike the eyes of the boa-constrictor, “I was telling

you, that I have a picture to sell.”

A slight sound came from the door. A second man had just entered and

seated himself on the bed, behind Jondrette.

Like the first, his arms were bare, and he had a mask of ink or

lampblack.

Although this man had, literally, glided into the room, he had not been

able to prevent M. Leblanc catching sight of him.

“Don’t mind them,” said Jondrette, “they are people who belong in the

house. So I was saying, that there remains in my possession a valuable

picture. But stop, sir, take a look at it.”

He rose, went to the wall at the foot of which stood the panel which we

have already mentioned, and turned it round, still leaving it supported

against the wall. It really was something which resembled a picture,

and which the candle illuminated, somewhat. Marius could make nothing

out of it, as Jondrette stood between the picture and him; he only saw

a coarse daub, and a sort of principal personage colored with the harsh

crudity of foreign canvasses and screen paintings.

“What is that?” asked M. Leblanc.

Jondrette exclaimed:—

“A painting by a master, a picture of great value, my benefactor! I am

as much attached to it as I am to my two daughters; it recalls

souvenirs to me! But I have told you, and I will not take it back, that

I am so wretched that I will part with it.”

Either by chance, or because he had begun to feel a dawning uneasiness,

M. Leblanc’s glance returned to the bottom of the room as he examined

the picture.

There were now four men, three seated on the bed, one standing near the

door-post, all four with bare arms and motionless, with faces smeared

with black. One of those on the bed was leaning against the wall, with

closed eyes, and it might have been supposed that he was asleep. He was

old; his white hair contrasting with his blackened face produced a

horrible effect. The other two seemed to be young; one wore a beard,

the other wore his hair long. None of them had on shoes; those who did

not wear socks were barefooted.

Jondrette noticed that M. Leblanc’s eye was fixed on these men.

“They are friends. They are neighbors,” said he. “Their faces are black

because they work in charcoal. They are chimney-builders. Don’t trouble

yourself about them, my benefactor, but buy my picture. Have pity on my

misery. I will not ask you much for it. How much do you think it is

worth?”

“Well,” said M. Leblanc, looking Jondrette full in the eye, and with

the manner of a man who is on his guard, “it is some signboard for a

tavern, and is worth about three francs.”

Jondrette replied sweetly:—

“Have you your pocket-book with you? I should be satisfied with a

thousand crowns.”

M. Leblanc sprang up, placed his back against the wall, and cast a

rapid glance around the room. He had Jondrette on his left, on the side

next the window, and the Jondrette woman and the four men on his right,

on the side next the door. The four men did not stir, and did not even

seem to be looking on.

Jondrette had again begun to speak in a plaintive tone, with so vague

an eye, and so lamentable an intonation, that M. Leblanc might have

supposed that what he had before him was a man who had simply gone mad

with misery.

“If you do not buy my picture, my dear benefactor,” said Jondrette, “I

shall be left without resources; there will be nothing left for me but

to throw myself into the river. When I think that I wanted to have my

two girls taught the middle-class paper-box trade, the making of boxes

for New Year’s gifts! Well! A table with a board at the end to keep the

glasses from falling off is required, then a special stove is needed, a

pot with three compartments for the different degrees of strength of

the paste, according as it is to be used for wood, paper, or stuff, a

paring-knife to cut the cardboard, a mould to adjust it, a hammer to

nail the steels, pincers, how the devil do I know what all? And all

that in order to earn four sous a day! And you have to work fourteen

hours a day! And each box passes through the workwoman’s hands thirteen

times! And you can’t wet the paper! And you mustn’t spot anything! And

you must keep the paste hot. The devil, I tell you! Four sous a day!

How do you suppose a man is to live?”

As he spoke, Jondrette did not look at M. Leblanc, who was observing

him. M. Leblanc’s eye was fixed on Jondrette, and Jondrette’s eye was

fixed on the door. Marius’ eager attention was transferred from one to

the other. M. Leblanc seemed to be asking himself: “Is this man an

idiot?” Jondrette repeated two or three distinct times, with all manner

of varying inflections of the whining and supplicating order: “There is

nothing left for me but to throw myself into the river! I went down

three steps at the side of the bridge of Austerlitz the other day for

that purpose.”

All at once his dull eyes lighted up with a hideous flash; the little

man drew himself up and became terrible, took a step toward M. Leblanc

and cried in a voice of thunder: “That has nothing to do with the

question! Do you know me?”